the last of us: nothing left ( open )

[delete this acc]

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ｊｉｌｌｉａｎ ｒａｓｔｅｌｌｉ
26 || firefly || location unknown

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( accepted! adding you to the front right now. c: )

Jillian found herself tromping along the weed-infested streets of Boston just as the sun peeked over the buildings, casting a warm - yet blinding - glow upon the long rotted ruins of a once great city. Her blue eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced up at the sky, taking in the blue vastness as she inhaled the stuffy air of the ruins she was stuck in. Beads of sweat coated her forehead for walking so long, causing her to lazily lift an arm up and wipe off her face with a limp arm. She'd long since abandoned her jacket, tying it around her waist as she tried to cool down from being in the blistering Massachusetts heat. With clammy hands, Jillian ditched her pistol on the ground as she took shelter in the shade of a tilted building, sitting upon a piece of rusted metal that she figured had fallen off of the same structure she was currently sitting under. Years of disrepair had caused most of the city buildings to wilt, barely avoiding to collapse as plants started to make their homes in the nooks and crannies. What would it have looked like before? The firefly shook her head in aggravation as she struggled with her drinking canteen, finally managing to yank the cap off with a rough tug. She gratefully gulped down nearly half of the container, splashing some more on her face to refresh herself from hours of walking.

[Anachronism]

Gordon let his head rest against the door, an audible thunk that was just quiet enough not to alert the clickers he'd just duped. He slid down to the floor slowly, back pressed hard against the rotting door. He exhaled silently, slowly. Lifting the bag of medications he'd just nearly died for, he scoffed and examined it's contents. Anything nowadays was a luxury, but a bottle of Tylenol or any medication was like gold dust. He tried not to think about what people might want the drugs for, but he wasn't born yesterday.
Hearing the clickers' dead shuffling and blind clicking fade away, he unzipped his backpack, stuffing his findings in the main pocket. He zipped the pack up and slung it over his shoulder, standing up and away from the door, glancing disdainfully over his shoulder. He'd have to head back to one of the militarized camps sooner or later. If wouldn't be easy smuggling these goods in; but there were many, many ways to get into their cities, you just had to look. This was his last haul, the last time he'd be scavenging anything if his plan worked. He'd been doing this for seven years, saving up so that he could finally buy all the supplies he needed, and he could live in relative peace. He had all the money on him- it was over 10 grand worth of currency- because he sure as heck didn't trust anyone or anything with it. His back pack was so heavy that he hoped he wouldn't come across any....anything. Not until he reached inner Boston anyway. He had too much on him to risk getting in a confrontation with raiders, or being chased by zombies. Laughing silently, he carefully chose his steps to the floorboards wouldn't creak. He made it to the back door, the screen torn up and door nearly off it's hinges. He stepped outside into the light of suburban Boston, and didn't hesitate to get moving. He figured he'd be walking for the remainder of the day.